Devious
by Blackjack Gabbiani
Summary: Five years ago, Galactic Commander Cyrus has a plan for new leadership, the Sun in the center of the universe. Written for Rocket100 on LJ.


(Prompted by two spoilers from Platinum--one, that Cyrus is 27, and two, that someone complains of not having gotten a promotion in five years. Which means either Cyrus had founded the Team by the time he was twenty-two...or he wasn't the original leader. Written for Rocket100 on LJ.)

Though he was a relatively new recruit, having only been hired three years ago at nineteen, Cyrus was already a commander. It was destiny, their leader said. It was as certain as though it had been written in the stars that he would achieve greatness.

Galatea was rarely wrong about things like that. And for his part, Cyrus knew she was right. From the moment they had met, she had praised him, for his mind, for his outlook, his look, his name...

His name. He was the Sun, she said, and that once he was shaped enough, all would behold him.

But she was the galaxy, and the Sun was a part of that, so he would be a part of her whole.

The thought was almost unbearable; his power checked by virtue of such a thing. He would gladly have borne such a burden, though, were it not for one thing. Galatea was convinced that humanity could be saved if they accepted her as their ruler.

It was folly. It would take something far beyond new leadership to salvage the world, and anyone who failed to realize that could not possibly be the leader of so many.

But he served faithfully. In time he would reveal his ideas, but for the time he stuck to his duties and appointed tasks. All the time Galatea was overhead, swirling around him like planets in orbit. He had to clear his thoughts, focus on only what she wanted, and set aside grand schemes of cosmic rebirth.

He was in negative space. The two goals were far removed, opposite points of the endless universe. Such a divide was unthinkable by living comprehension, but he continued to serve. It was better than the void of the outside. At least Galatea, distant though she was, existed on the same plane, beyond the grasp of those who clung to the everyday.

Then there was the word, open on the page before him as he searched through the tome on the ancient world. It had no meaning, none connected to anything he had been taught, none in the universe save for a broken rock.

He had his release. She had presented a false face to the Team, and those who did so could never be leaders. Those who did so would fall into the black hole of history, never to be spoken of again. Who would want to remember a liar?

There was his plan, and there was his presentation. Such a thing could not be acted on with haste, but he had never released his ideas from his mind, so he was prepared to strike.

Those he passed in the hallway snapped to attention, some trailing in his gravitational pull before casting themselves aside. There existed none who would stop him, and none that could.

Galatea's office lay nearly to the end of the hallway that wound through the topmost floor, beyond it only the boardroom where he had heard the repetition of her goals spiraling out into infinity. To put the room, the blind trust of humans, past herself was folly.

One knock garnered a cheerful "Enter!"--she was needlessly jubilant, the flow of passion towards something as commonplace as receiving a visitor another meteor hurling towards her. Not that his visit was commonplace, but she had no way of knowing that.

"Ma'am," he addressed shortly, closing the door behind him with one arm, the other kept stiffly behind his back.

She set her pen aside and pushed the papers to the center of the desk. "You didn't salute."

His hand tightened.

"But I suppose that doesn't matter. What brings you here, Commander Cyrus?"

A step and another. "Are you the galaxy, Galatea?" And another. "Are you really all things? Or are you just nearly nothing?"

She looked away briefly, but only for a second, and when she caught his glare she was smiling. "Go on."

"Galatea," he repeated, drawing it out and advancing on the beats. "I found that name in my studies. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that you aren't the galaxy after all."

By this point he was at her side, and she had matched his eyes at every moment. "Then what am I, brilliant Sun?"

"A broken moon. A shattered stone." He bent down to her level. "A false idol."

"Then I presume you're here to strike me from existence." A faint smile shone across her lips. "I had a feeling you would. And no one will stand in your way."

Taking her life, her power, would bring her power as a part of himself, and the Team would not rise against him for the act. It would be the natural order of the universe. In an instant he struck, grabbing her by the neckline of her uniform and shoving her back on the desk, holding her by the throat although she made no move to struggle.

"This was never about my name, was it?" she asked calmly, but with a dash of sadness.

"No, not especially." He stayed his hand for a moment, then no longer, plunging the knife into her heart.

A short cry escaped her, then a few sharp breaths, and she smiled at him. "You are the Sun..." she told him, pulling in a gasp as he removed the knife, "and all will behold your glory..." Her mouth moved for a second but no sound escaped, and she fell limply into the black hole beyond life.

He stared at her for a moment before picking her up and resting her in the chair in front of the desk. A nebula of blood streaked his own uniform, and with a disgusted sigh he removed his jacket to clean the polished wood before the pool could reach any of the papers.

Taking his seat, and it was indeed his now, he picked up the errant pen and began writing where she had left off. There was, if his plan worked, only so much time in the world, even if the sun could shine forever.


End file.
